Scorpion Trail

by Geoffrey Archer

  Deep breath.

  ‘Lass’ ihn los! Let him go! Let him go now!’ he yelled.

  Pravic started. He jerked on his hostage’s neck. Alex gagged. Pravic swung the gun left and blasted plaster from the wall by the door to ward F. The marksman ducked inside.

  ‘Hen Pravic! Drop the weapon!’ From the lift lobby now.

  Herr Pravic, Alex seethed. Why so bloody formal? Why not arsehole? He wrenched his head to the right. Ten metres away, a face and a gun edging round the wall.

  He understood. Saw their tactic. To prod and confuse like picadors in a bullring, twisting Pravic one way, then the other, in the hope he’d expose enough of himself for a hit.

  A dangerous tactic, that could kill him in the process.

  So, Pravic was to be stopped at any price. Never to be let into that ward. Even if the hostage died in the process . . . Alex had nothing to lose.

  The gun muzzle crushed the lobe of his ear.

  ‘Let him go, Herr Pravic!’ The voice from the left. The word. ‘Let the hostage go!’

  ‘Herr Pravic!’

  From the right, now. The lift lobby. ‘Throw down the gun!’

  Pravic trembled, blinded by flashing images from the past. Taunts. Prods with sticks. The stones flicked in his face as he ran to school.

  ‘Let him go!’ The lobby end again. ‘Have sense! You’re surrounded. No way out, Pravic!’

  Oh yes there was! He’d learned to fight back. Learned that if you asked for mercy, they pissed on you.

  He aimed the Zastrava at the lobby corner.

  Alex felt Pravic tense to absorb the kick of the gun. He tensed too. Ready.

  The shot cracked and ricocheted off the walls. A split-second only in which to act.

  Alex reached back with his trussed hands and grabbed for the soft, sensitive offal of the gunman’s genitals.

  Pravic buckled instinctively, grunting with surprise.

  With the sudden weight-shift, Alex had leverage. He locked his chin onto Pravic’s arm and buckled his knees. As he fell forward, with Pravic hooked to his neck, he jinked, turning the Bosnian’s back towards ward F.

  Marksman of the year for 1992 saw his chance.

  Four shots. Four shuddering jerks to the Bosnian’s body. Then Alex felt a stabbing pain in his spine. He crumpled to the floor, with Pravic’s twitching bulk on top of him.

  Lorna banged open the doors to the lobby and sprinted after the policeman as he thundered down the corridor.

  Bodies on the floor. Uniforms clustered round. A policeman’s boot stamped down hard. Crushed by its heavy sole, a hand clutching a gun.

  She couldn’t speak. Didn’t dare ask.

  Face pressed to the shiny floor by Pravic’s body, Alex tasted blood. Wetness trickled to his mouth from the back of his head.

  Words in gruff German, then Pravic was pulled off him. Alex rolled onto one side, wincing at the pain in his back. One look at the dark red dribble from Pravic’s mouth told him the blood he’d tasted had not been his own.

  ‘Alex!’

  He looked up – Lorna was kneeling beside him. He smiled up at her, seizing her hand, and holding on to it as if it were life itself.

  Twenty-Six

  9.45 p.m.

  Frankfurt Airport

  ON THE LONG, hard drive from Calais Michael McCarthy had stayed at the wheel of the British-registered Mondeo. Didn’t trust the moody, hungover Nolan.

  They’d found beds at one of the new, plastic hotels that did cheap rooms near an autobahn junction west of Frankfurt. He’d dropped Nolan there, then driven to the airport and left the Mondeo in the long-term car park.

  At the arrivals terminal, he rented a VW Golf using a stolen driving licence, paid cash for three days’ rental, then took the car for a short familiarization spin before returning to the hotel.

  He knocked on Nolan’s room. Heavy feet, then the door wrenched open.

  ‘Will you fockin’ look at this, Michael,’ Nolan howled, heading back into the room and pointing to the television.

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘Youse can get Sky News here, that’s fockin’ what!’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So your man’s only on the fockin’ news!’ Nolan was apoplectic.

  ‘What you on about, Tommy?’ He grabbed his arm. ‘Count to five. Then tell me.’

  ‘It was himself! Your man Jarvis, only his name’s Crawford now. It was shown on Sky News, but it happened here. In Frankfurt. At some hospital. He stopped some madman murdering hundreds of people with anthrax. They’s calling the bastard a hero!’

  ‘When did you see this? Are you certain about it?’

  ‘Just a few minutes ago. And of course I’m fockin’ certain. It’ll be on again in a wee while. You’ll see.’

  McCarthy perched his backside on the dressing-table unit. Didn’t change anything.

  ‘Did they say where this hospital was?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t get it anyways. You’ll see for yourself in a minute.’

  Nolan sat on the edge of the bed, crumpled and out of his depth. He’d only once been out of the British Isles before, a fortnight in Tenerife one year when he’d won a bit on the pools.

  ‘Not getting cold feet, are you Tommy?’

  ‘What? Not on your life.’

  Not convincing. McCarthy could see he’d have to put some bottle in him. Hadn’t brought him all this way just to have him cop out at the last minute.

  ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘Eh?’ Nolan looked up, confused.

  ‘What’s he done to you this fellow, that you’ve wanted to kill him for the last twenty years?’

  ‘He’s a tout. You knows that. He put my brother Kieran under the earth.’

  ‘Exactly. I know that. You know that. So don’t you forget it tomorrow when you’ve got the nine millimetre pointed at his head.’

  Belsize Park, north London

  In the comfort of his suburban home, Roger Chadwick watched News at Ten with deepening unease. It was all there. The bloodstained hospital corridor, the press conference with Alex and Lorna. Big close-ups, their names broadcast for everyone to hear.

  ‘Oh God,’ he breathed. The IRA cease-fire was certainly expected, but it wasn’t yet in place.

  ‘Something the matter, dear?’ his wife asked, glancing up from her crossword.

  ‘Yes. I think there might be.’

  He got up from the soft armchair, crossed the hall from the living room to his study and picked up the phone. Better have a minder or two on the first plane to Frankfurt in the morning.

  Lorna Donohue! It was her, after all. Why the hell had Alex lied to him? Not hard to guess.

  After his call to Thames House he stared up at his well-filled bookshelf, thinking. By the time his men got to Germany and found their way around, it would be mid-morning. The thought made him uncomfortable. A vital few hours left uncovered.

  He tried another call, to the German Bundeskriminalamt in Wiesbaden.

  No reply to Kommissar Linz’s direct line and he had no other number. Better get Thames House to pass a message through the BKA duty officer.

  Alex was the person he most needed to contact, but the idiot hadn’t told him where he was staying.

  Harz Mountains

  Dieter Konrad sat alone in front of a fire of crackling spruce. Normally he loved the quiet of his isolated retreat in the Harz. Trees all around, nearest neighbour half a kilometre away. But tonight the silence deepened his fear.

  The man he knew as ‘Schiller’ had ordered him here this morning. Telephoned him at the Berlin apartment, breaking the agreement not to contact him there. His wife had asked questions.

  The mystery murder of Karina the prostitute had been on the morning radio news. There’d need to be two more deaths before he felt safe. Gisela Pocklewicz and most important of all, Milan Pravic.

  It was after midnight, but there was no point in trying to sleep. Not while his mind still saw the disbelief in the whore’s bulbous eyes as
he’d choked her to death.

  Strange that with a handful of murders to his credit, this one should affect him so deeply. The difference was it had been personal this time. Had to kill Karina with his own hands, to save his own skin. And worse, much worse, she was somebody he had desired.

  The ring of the telephone made him half leap from the chair.

  Rudiger Katzfuss and Martin Sanders weaved through the forest on the deserted ‘B’ road, headlamps bouncing off the light bark of silver birches. Sanders at the wheel of the big BMW, Katzfuss on the phone.

  ‘Schiller here,’ said Katzfuss. ‘We’re on our way to see you. Can you pack a bag with enough things for a week?’

  ‘Why? What’s the matter?’

  ‘We’ve got wind that the press are on to you. We’ve decided you’d be safer, and so would we, if you were in one of our houses. Pick you up in about ten minutes?’

  Konrad grunted an acknowledgement and rang off. Katzfuss held the phone out so he could see the dialpad in the light of the reading lamp. He pressed the ‘secrecy’ button. The line would stay connected, but silent.

  Konrad stood by the phone staring at it. Why? Why at this time of night? How could the press be on to him, unless the BND themselves had tipped them off. No one else knew that Herr Konrad and Herr Dunkel were the same person. Not even his wife.

  Perhaps the press had been on to her. He picked up the receiver again. She’d be asleep at the flat in Berlin-Lichtenberg, but never mind. He had to know.

  No dialling tone. Just a hum and a crackle. He pressed down on the rest, then up again. Dead.

  ‘Ach, Du Liebe,’ he gasped. ‘Nein!’

  He flung open the front door and stumbled towards the Mercedes, guided by light spilling from the house. He felt with a finger for the escutcheon and inserted the key. Stupid habit keeping it locked. No need to out here.

  Ignition on. Wait for the diesel light. Come on!

  A flick of the key and the engine rumbled. He stabbed at the light switch, crunched into first and accelerated down the hundred metres of narrow gravel towards the road.

  Headlights! Turning in towards him.

  ‘Gott o Gott!’

  Full beam. Dazzling. No room to pass. Trees either side. He stamped on the brake.

  Sanders braked first, then sprung from the door running into the darkness, reaching into his shoulder holster for the pistol.

  Katzfuss, heart pounding, walked slowly to the driver’s door of the Mercedes.

  ‘Weren’t you going to wait for us, Herr Konrad?’ he asked when the window was down. Konrad looked old and very, very scared.

  ‘Something happened to my telephone . . .’ he explained lamely. ‘I don’t know what’s going on.’

  ‘Not working? Never mind. There’s one in the house we’re going to. It’s not far from here. Bag packed?’

  ‘No. I . . .’

  ‘Better be quick. These journalists work through the night. Back the car up. You’ll come with us in ours.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘Yes. I have a friend with me. There’s another colleague at the safe house. We’ll all be staying there tonight. A little cramped, but we’ll manage. Gemütlich! Here, I’ll help you reverse.’

  He walked to the rear of the Mercedes, took out a flashlight and guided Konrad back up the drive. Sanders slipped behind the wheel of the BMW and followed closely.

  Ten minutes later they headed north on the Bundesstrasse. Sanders gripped the wheel of the BMW in total concentration. He knew what he had to do, knew it was something he’d never done before, knew if he allowed himself to think too much, his nerve would crack.

  In the back, Konrad sat beside Katzfuss, gripping the sides of the small case perched on his knees. They drove for less than fifteen minutes, then turned onto a mud track. Konrad knew these woods. The way led to a lake where he’d fished for pike.

  No houses here. He was sure of it.

  ‘So,’ said Katzfuss, struggling to sound calm, ‘we’re here. Just a little walk.’

  ‘There are no houses here,’ Konrad croaked, frozen to the seat.

  ‘It’s a fishing cabin. You haven’t noticed it before? Well that shows what a good safe house it is. Come along. It’s three minutes.’

  Katzfuss got out of the car. Sanders hovered in the darkness, shining a torch on the ground.

  ‘What are you waiting for Herr Konrad? Someone to carry your bag? It’s not that sort of place,’ Katzfuss laughed hollowly. So did Sanders.

  Konrad opened the door. Legs like lead, throat desertdry. Somewhere in this murk death lurked. He could smell his own fear. Should he run? They’d shoot him for sure. Maybe if he played along with them there was a chance. Just a chance . .

  Katzfuss led the way, flashlight lighting up the mud of a path. Konrad next, then Sanders, shining his torch forward.

  The smell of decaying weed told Konrad they were within metres of the water.

  When he’d fished for that pike here, months ago, he’d identified with it – a predator in a pool of torpidity. Sensed that one day he too would swallow a hook disguised as bait, because like the fish, decades of trickery had not equipped him to avoid the trickery of others.

  As they squelched deeper into the blackness he knew the end had come. He tasted the salt of tears. His eyes began to blur. All he’d wanted was to live out his days in the peace of the forest, doing no one harm any more. His wife would be asleep in their warm, soft bed, knowing nothing about what he’d done in the past. He prayed she never learned the truth.

  ‘Shh!’ Katzfuss held up a hand for them to stop. Pitch black all around, he shielded the beam of his torch. ‘Something’s wrong. There should be lights in the house.’

  They listened for a moment, none of them breathing.

  ‘Wait here a minute,’ he said. ‘I’ll go on alone.’ He trotted forward out of sight.

  Sanders raised the beam of his torch. It caught Konrad’s head as he turned his fearful face towards him. He fired the bullet smack into the Stasi man’s temple.

  Twenty-seven

  Wednesday 6 April, a.m.

  Frankfurt

  ALEX AND LORNA stepped out of the Hotel Sommer at eleven minutes to ten. The media had been phoning non-stop that morning. Time to check out.

  The press conference had alarmed him. All those close-ups – no question now that his cover had been finally blown. Just had to pray the IRA were watching football instead of the news.

  Alex carried their two bags, and Lorna their coats. A watery sun shone that morning, but rain was forecast.

  Opposite the hotel, the VW Golf had been parked on a meter for more than two hours. McCarthy sat with his gloved hands on the wheel, Nolan fidgeting beside him.

  When he recognized the man he’d come to kill, Nolan gulped. Never seen him in the flesh before. Under the coat folded on his lap was the heavy Springfield pistol McCarthy had retrieved from beneath the floorboards of the house in Chiswick.

  ‘I’ll not do it here,’ Nolan declared, nervously. ‘Not with all these people about.’

  ‘Course you bloody won’t,’ McCarthy snapped.

  There was no way he was going to let this old man cock things up and get them jailed just as peace was breaking out in the six counties.

  ‘We’ll follow them.’

  He started the engine, slipped out of the parking bay and crawled along the kerb.

  Lorna took the road south, towards the airport.

  ‘How’s your back?’ she asked, looking at Alex with concern.

  The muscle he’d pulled yesterday when falling to the floor of the hospital with Pravic on top of him was still painful.

  ‘Not too bad. I get a twinge when I move.’ He pushed the switch on the dashboard radio. ‘Let’s see if there’s any news of Mr Pravic.’

  He already knew that surgeons had spent much of yesterday afternoon removing the police bullets from his back. They’d given his chances of survival as fifty-fifty.

  Alex turned the volume up high. The new
s in German was always read too fast for him. Loudness helped him pick out the words.

  The economy and European Union were back on top of the agenda. The fate of the Bosnian Croat who’d nearly committed mass murder in a Frankfurt hospital was the third story.

  ‘Still alive,’ Alex translated. ‘They use the word beständig which I think means stable.’

  ‘Pity,’ Lorna remarked. ‘They don’t have the chair in Germany, do they?’

  ‘No. He’ll probably end up in some asylum with nurses fussing round him.’

  They were heading for Pfefferheim for what they intended to be the last time. Vildana was being let out of hospital that morning and Lorna wanted to check the Roches were still committed to her, before she pulled out and left them to it.

  Last night, after the police had finished their questions, after the journalists had completed their interviews and after Alex had told the hotel desk not to put calls through to their room, he and Lorna had talked.

  Not about the future. They’d leave that to fate. They’d talked about the missing years, realizing how little they knew about each other now, how little they’d known before, even when they’d been together.

  Last night they’d begun to build the framework of something, without yet knowing what it was. In the days ahead they planned to add shape and texture until it took a form they could understand.

  They didn’t talk much more on the way to Pfefferheim.

  They didn’t notice they were being followed.

  Frankfurt Airport

  Martin Sanders bought a fistful of German newspapers from the bookstall in the Duty Free area then sat down to drink a cup of strong coffee. He flicked through the pages to ensure there were no alarming headlines. He felt uneasy, sickened by what he and Katzfuss had been forced to do to protect the secrecy of the Ramblers.

  In his head he had the draft of a letter to his SIS Chief, resigning from the group. In it there’d be a recommendation that the concept of ‘black’ multinational security operations be abandoned. Too much risk of soured relations when things went wrong.